There was a long silence as each thought about the troubled past.
Then Rolt continued, “Your father saw greatness in Privet. I spoke of him seeing the Stone’s Light, and a way forward. Well, it was to come through her. When she spoke to him of a quest for the Book of Silence, which I personally thought was the wild talk of a mole too educated for her own good, he understood that she might be on the only way that would free moledom of the dark shadows of strife, and the renewal in a different form of the war of Stone and Word. He saw it, though she herself didn’t.”
“And I? And my sisters?”
Rolt shrugged, feeling suddenly rather tired. He had told Chervil the main things, the rest could come later. No longer was he burdened by secrets he had no wish to keep.
“I cannot speak of your sisters since those days. I asked the moles who were to rear them to tell them of their father and mother when they were old enough to understand. Such things should not be secret. But of you I can say this: yours is a great heritage, and a troublesome one. You have been born of two of the most remarkable moles of an age of remarkable moles. As your parents were united for a time by passion and love, so yours may be the task of uniting moledom, as he always wanted. To see peace come, and trust return; to see the Stone worshipped as it should be; to know the lost and last book has finally ‘come to ground’, as the old teaching goes.
“These are great times, Chervil, and if your past is shadowed and strange, well, it may make you all the more able to deal with the shadow and light that successively beset and inspire moledom.”
Chervil frowned and said, not without regret, “And meanwhile. My mother? My father? My sisters? I discover them now, and I do not know if a single one of them is alive.”
“You shall rediscover them, mole.”
“Hmmph!” said Chervil, and it was all he said for a very long time.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Quail, Snyde, and Supreme Commander Squilver were not in the least surprised when news of the assault by Thorne’s forces came through to their Banbury headquarters the following evening. After all, had not moles from Thorne’s force already been responsible for several outrages in recent days past, including the killing of four moles at Ratley, and the massacre of all but one of a patrol of five near Wellesbourne? It seemed so.
They knew, for example, that Thorne’s guardmoles were responsible for the killings at Ratley because the sole surviving member of the patrol – wounded and mistakenly left for dead – had overheard his assailants talk of how pleased Brother Commander Thorne would be.
That this might be the work of followers rather than Newborns, and, worse, designed to put the blame on Thorne, does not seem to have occurred to Quail or Squilver; nor even to Snyde, who might perhaps have been expected to suspect such a thing. Yet his meticulous records give no clue that he did. On the contrary, the “evidence” that the outrages were the work of Thorne’s moles caused him to revise his belief that it had been followers who had so rudely invaded the Banbury headquarters, and so nearly – but for his brave intervention! – caused harm to the Elder Senior Brother himself. Mistrusting his own instincts he now believed that the moles who infiltrated Banbury, aided as he still maintained by the now disgraced Skua, were traitorous Newborns, spawned by Thorne.
“It is a pity we did not ourselves make the first assault,” observed Quail accusingly. “Is it not, Squilver?”
It was another Crusade Council meeting, in another chamber, and once more the atmosphere was heavy with fear – and also with the now undeniable odours of Quail himself, which were like the vomit of fox, or the sweet-sick stench of a cadaver rotting in a dark pool on a summer’s day.
Experienced members of the Council took positions near the portals in the hope that a fresh breeze might blow the smell away from them. Snyde, as usual, crouched at Quail’s flank, positively revelling in the nauseous perfume of his master’s body. They were there to debate a sudden and unexpected opening of hostilities by Thorne’s forces.
Quail’s eyes were dark and impassive; there were drops of sweat on his bald head, and his mouth was open in a grotesque and cruel smile, wide enough to reveal the few rotten teeth he still had.
“Well?” he rasped, sticking his snout forward and peering at Squilver, angry not to have had a reply to his question.
Squilver hesitated, and understandably so. His advice had been to mount an assault, but Snyde himself had counselled against it, saying that they would be better advised to let Thorne be seen to be the aggressor so that he might the easier be arraigned, tried, and executed when he was caught, as he surely would be. So Squilver smiled uneasily, reluctant to risk reminding them of what they all knew had been the basis for inaction; instead he attempted to divert Quail.
“Eight of ours are dead, to ten of theirs, Master; a good result in the difficult circumstances in which they fought – taken by surprise as they were, and against superior numbers.”
Snyde nodded approvingly, Quail winced from some internal pain or other, Squilver waited. In fact what he had just reported was not true. The losses had been ten Caradocians to only three of Thorne’s force, and the numbers fighting had been roughly equal. Nor was there any surprise that could not have been guarded against had Squilver not advised his moles to concentrate their forces in another area than that which Thorne attacked.
“We took one of their moles prisoner, Master.”
“Ah,” sighed Quail. “And?”
“Under pressure of the Stone’s correction, the mole confessed freely. More assaults are coming, as we expected. That he knew, and much else.”
Squilver glanced at Snyde, who had been present at the “Stone’s correction”, the euphemism the Caradocians used for torture.
“Master, the mole revealed much of interest, some of which is distressing,” began Snyde. “If I may refer to my memorandum of the interview...”
Snyde’s report was short and accurate. The reluctant informant had revealed that Thorne’s forces were now strong and well-placed; that many systems to the east had been made subjugate to Thorne; that the northern territories were under the sway of Chervil himself, who was now in alliance with Thorne; that Brother Commanders had been sent as far west as Cannock, and had taken a large number of systems, including, it was thought, Cannock itself; that —
“Yes, yes, yes!” snarled Quail; his carbuncled snout turned puce, his eyes bulged; the veins distended above his eyes and down his thick neck, and the protuberance at his rear wobbled and shook like the body of a dead worm bloated with filthy floodwater. “Enough, mole, we have heard enough...”
For once, it seemed, Snyde had gone too far, perhaps allowing himself to sound a little too smug in this reporting of Thorne’s successes.
Quail turned to Squilver and asked, “What do you advise?”
It was an interesting moment, for Squilver could not easily prevaricate, though he could try. But if he agreed with what Snyde had said at the previous Council, and Snyde now changed his mind, well... he would have lost too much face to survive if Snyde chose to put the talons in. If he advocated an assault, and Snyde resisted, then the ensuing struggle might be bloody; it was not an easy...
“We should attack them, Master,” said Squilver suddenly, his words cutting short whatever private calculations the Council was making. “We should freely admit our mistakes as a Council in advocating tolerance and peace, and prosecute war forthwith against the worms and snakes of the evil that is Thorne. We should arraign him, and punish Brother Rolt, who is also amongst his allies.”
It was neatly done, this reference to Rolt, whom Snyde had indeed omitted to mention.
“Rolt?” whispered Quail, eyes cold as ice. “He?”
“Aye, my Lord,” said Squilver, who had now committed himself and clearly felt he might as well go for everything, “Brother Rolt, the former Elder Senior Brother’s aide, is part of Thorne’s cabal.”
“Even Rolt, even he?” sighed Quail, looking at Snyde in a hurt and puzzled way as if disappoi
nted this information had not been divulged earlier, and hoping there was a good reason.
“My Master,” said Snyde softly, discomfited not one bit by Squilver’s taking of the initiative, “I did not wish to distress you more on a day when I know that you feel weak and are in pain. I did not wish —”
Quail waved him into silence, suddenly amiable and expansive. “Supreme Commander Squilver, your frankness does you credit, and Brother Snyde’s concern for me, though mistaken, touches my heart. Rolt was once dear to me – he is so no more. Such must be the buffets and bruises that come with responsibility, but they must not deter a mole from making the right decision. Personal feelings must be put to one side in favour of what is right for moledom, in the Stone’s name!”
“Amen!”
“Praise be!”
“Stone be with our Master!”
Quail permitted a momentary expression of modesty to cross his hideous face. A fragment of a smile struggled at his mouth and his eyelid drooped down as it did when he relaxed, or was tired.
“Let me ask Brother Commanders Sapient and Turling for their view.”
Sapient, whose brutal face and cruel eyes rarely looked anything but malevolent and displeased, replied immediately: “Elder Senior Brother, I confess that I am anxious to get back to Avebury, but this you know. Autumn is a time of change and the followers are likely to get as restive at this season as the rest of us. I am therefore not anxious to express a view that might lead you to feel that my presence —”
“Yes, yes, Brother Commander, but what do you think we should do?” said Quail, interrupting him.
“Attack, in numbers, and forcefully. Kill as many of Thorne’s forces as we can lay our talons on. Hang them up by their snouts for others to see. Make an example of them that will show on this earth the terrors that the Stone has waiting for them in the place of non-Silence to which such moles shall be sent at the moment of their final breath.”
There was a growl of approval around the chamber.
“It seems your policy of appeasement pleases nomole now, Brother Snyde,” commented Quail unpleasantly.
“Kill, yes. Example, yes. Be forceful, yes,” said Snyde. “But linger, no! We must get to Duncton Wood. That is the crux of everything, Master, and the only place where you can be seen in a setting that will be fitting for your assumption of supreme spiritual leadership over moledom as the mole who is Paramount and Prime. To see that glorious day is my only desire, and what advice I have given is directed towards achieving it. If I risk unpopularity by advising caution against becoming embroiled in open civil war here in Banbury, where even the most war-minded of my colleagues admits defence is not easy...”
Snyde looked about the Council, smiling slightly. He was impressive, and as usual never short of the right word at the right time; many moles nodded their agreement, including even Squilver.
“If I risk disapproval, so be it. I must advise as my heart and mind tell me to. But yes, perhaps the Supreme Commander’s instincts were better than my own. We have allowed Thorne’s followers too much latitude. They must be shown how they might be crushed and then... then we must make our way to Duncton. Once safely established there, and with the Elder Senior Brother honoured before the Stone that none may deny him his peerlessness in body and in spirit, we must show moledom whither it shall now be bound.”
The Council sighed. Nomole was to be blamed, all were to have their chance, the way forward was clear. Snyde had not actually said that the sooner they got Quail to Duncton the better, for the safer he would be, but that was the gist of it all. Seeing his deteriorating condition, whatmole could doubt that if they were to retain their power and control over events the best place for their master was somewhere safe and secure, like Duncton Wood.
Quail looked suddenly tired, as he often did now: councils were fatiguing, decisions difficult, moles argumentative, and authority heavy upon his shoulders.
“The details I shall leave to you, Supreme Commander. Let the attack be bold and total. Let Sapient’s forces be brought up from the south of Banbury, and yours too, Turling.”
“Forgive me, Master,” said Squilver, “but it would be sensible to decree that the Brother Commanders’ forces be interspersed with my own – to gain from their mutual strengths.” He was hoping thereby to get more control over those forces, and prevent their premature withdrawal by Sapient and Turling.
Indeed, a look of alarm and dislike passed over Sapient’s face, and then resolute refusal, but Quail was not interested, and ignored Squilver’s plea.
“Brother Inquisitor Fagg,” he continued, “I have instructions for you, and for you, Brother Inquisitor Taunt of Rollright. Yes, yes, pause awhile. For the rest, good luck. Let me hear good reports; let me know the Stone triumphs over its enemies; let me know I can sleep easy.”
“Bless thee, Elder Senior Brother, bless thee,” they murmured as they left, their blessings a new feature of Quail’s court, an unspoken acknowledgement that Quail was beginning in some way to slip away from them towards a holier place, his present physical trials a penance perhaps that he must suffer before the glorification of his greatness that was soon to come at Duncton Wood.
“Good Brothers,” he whispered to Taunt and Fagg, when they came near, “only you and Brother Snyde know where Thripp is. He has been well hidden in Rollright. Prepare now to have him taken privily into Brother Inquisitor Fetter’s care in Duncton Wood. Take the disgraced Skua with him, for he may serve us yet and so redeem himself; and my son, my dear son Squelch, estranged from me these hard summer years past, get him to Duncton too. But tell him not of Chervil’s treachery, it would distress him.”
“Yes, Master,” they murmured, “it shall be done.”
Snyde nodded them away.
“I miss my Squelch,” said Quail, “I miss him singing me to sleep. I miss his caress and love. I miss my son.”
“You are tired, Elder Senior Brother.”
“And you are...” But Quail’s anger or irritation was that of an old mole, or a pup’s, petulant, puppish, weak. “The pains, Snyde, they are deep today, deep as sin.” He shook his head low and wept silently as Snyde touched him. Quail’s voice was that of a mole who knows he is slipping into a void of helpless pain.
“Sleep, Master; forgetting. I shall find another healer for thee.”
“A healer!” protested Quail. “Oils and embrocation, massage and the useless word. The last healer, the last...”
The last healer Quail had crippled and then killed, for he had caused too much pain. Quail’s eyes wandered as his voice faded; he could not remember what he had done with the last healer.
“Privet,” he said suddenly, and without apparent relevance, “she escaped.”
“Probably dead.”
“She might have healed me,” said Quail, and laughed a strange, hysterical, almost silent laugh.
Snyde stared at him coldly. He must get him to Duncton Wood. They must not dally too long fighting Thorne. Time was running away ahead of them, and they were being left behind.
“You knew Privet, Snyde.”
“Yes, Master, so I did. She was a scholar and a scribe-mole, not a healer.”
“No?” said Quail, almost mockingly, almost smiling. “Yet she escaped?”
Snyde frowned, not liking the turn that Quail’s thoughts were taking.
“Master, I shall find you comfort for the night.”
“Not a healer, mole, not one of those.”
“Not that kind of comfort, no.”
“Some little mole whose dalliance will help me forget the pain.”
“Just so, Elder Senior Brother, just such a mole.”
“When Fagg sends for Squelch to go to Duncton Wood, let him say that his father loves him.”
Quail turned slowly and painfully towards the portal, his left paw dragging now as he went, the protuberances on his head and neck and rear swaying and pulling at themselves as night approached.
The Caradocian attack on Thorne’s forwa
rd positions took place next dawn, suddenly and with brutal effect. Across a field of dew the first moles led, and many followed and the autumn cobwebs were rent by the screams and spattered with the blood of Caradocian and Thorne guardmole alike.
All that day they fought there; and the next elsewhere; and the day after that somewhere else again, and so began a bloody campaign along an east-west front that would have no easy end.
October advanced into interminable days of struggle and war as from south of Banbury, around Rollright, Brother Commander Sapient brought forces northward which he had been hoping he would not have to commit. But his hopes of returning to Avebury soon were dashed as the war with Thorne dragged on and slowed. The hope he and Squilver had of a quick end to the fighting blew away to nothing, like leaves on the autumn winds; while their enemy, Thorne, began to accept that the struggle would be longer than he wished as he watched it settle upon them all like steady autumn rain.
Yet there was one small group of moles most satisfied with the way matters were turning out, and that was Arvon’s force. Having so successfully provoked the fighting between the two sides, first by killing some moles on Thorne’s side and making conversation that would be overheard by survivors who would identify them as Quail’s guardmoles, then by covertly attacking Squilver’s moles, they slipped away back to their secret headquarters at Gaydon. From there Arvon led them southwards, to take up their position near the entrance to Duncton Wood, and await news of Maple and all those who fought with him, and to offer what further help they could to the followers’ cause.
It was during one of the violent gales that swept across eastern moledom that October that Bees cast off for ever the Newborn bonds that had restrained him for so long, and began a far greater journey than the simpler one he had set out upon – he became a pilgrim journeying south to find not just Privet, but the Stone in himself.
When the rain pelted down, he had not minded; when the way had been all mud, he had plodded on; when the wind had driven the dead leaves far ahead of him, he retained his faith that he would get there in the end.
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